One

The cross I bear across my brow for thee
Makes up the cloth which sees me through the storm
And in the faintest moments of my glee
Adds paint and pain-ed pallor to my form
The world around makes light of who we are
It mocks the very essence of the soul
In pale parade perfection moves to mar
And chip away the fragments from the whole
Through all the sorry, soulless, crass attacks
The beauty beyond sight beckons my ear
To bend toward a sound I hope attracts
A lovely new existence to me here
Can love exist in places such as this?
Or am I doomed to roam bereft of bliss?